


Flounder

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank picks a weird Traci.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 186





	Flounder

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s a reason Hank doesn’t usually hang out with his peers. They might not all be as shitty as Reed, but they’re all as irritating or even more boring, and they pick the worst places to crash, like a roped-off sex club the proprietor’s all too happy to hand over to a bunch of cops. He even gives Hank a sleazy wink like this’ll garner him brownie points next time something goes wrong at his place, but the greasy look just makes Hank hate the guy more. He’d rather go home and watch a game, but Jeffrey tells him to _be a team player_ or find another job. Hank would rather be unemployed, but he has to afford Sumo’s food somehow. 

He can at least stay out of the rooms his ‘friends’ occupy. He doesn’t need to see Reed get an awkward lap dance from a piece of plastic or Tina stuff fake dollar bills into a stripper’s g-string for kicks when androids can’t crave money. He wanders out into the hall with his beer and chugs down half the bottle, wishing the pounding noise they call music would stop. There’s not even a singer. Not even a melody. It’s the same loop of techno garbage without any real instruments. Humanity’s lost it.

A few of the androids actually try to catch his attention. Maybe it’s because he’s the only human in the room, but the woman on the pole gyrates her hips towards him. Hank knows she’s not a _real_ woman. It’s just too creepy if he thinks of them as _objects_. And it’s already pretty creepy. One of the guys in the glass tubes winks at him. Hank thinks he’s going to be sick. 

Then his eyes catch on a flickering blue LED embedded in soft peach skin, just under neatly brushed dark brown hair, and Hank actually does a double take, because that android’s wearing _clothes_. He’s dressed in a fitted grey suit perfectly tailored to his trim figure. RK800’s written out across the back. Maybe that’s supposed to be a higher-end Traci or something—Hank’s never paid attention to the model numbers on his technology. 

Mainly to get away from the staring eyes of all the androids still trapped in their transparent cocoons, Hank meanders over to the brunet. The android’s standing in the corner, staring intensely at the wall, as though he’s analyzing something that Hank can’t see. Maybe he’s just malfunctioning. Hank reaches the android’s side and grunts, “How much?”

It’s not that he actually wants to stick his dick inside a plastic person. It’s that maybe buying someone will get him a private room—getting Jeffrey off his back and keeping him out of the way. The android turns to look at Hank, and somehow, the android’s brown eyes actually have _depth_ to them. They shine where the light hits them, and they don’t just stare blankly into Hank’s face—they flicker over Hank’s body as though sizing him up. The RK800 takes an oddly long time to answer, “My name is Connor.” Which doesn’t technically answer Hank’s question at all. 

He didn’t ask for the android’s name. But he doesn’t complain about it, because it’s a welcome surprise—he didn’t even think Tracis _had_ names. It makes it easier for Hank to pretend he’s actually talking to someone real. Not that he’d buy sex from a real person either. He’s just buzzed enough that he presses the issue: “How much?”

Connor tilts his pretty head and runs those chocolate eyes down Hank again, then seems to decide, “It’s on the house.”

Hank barks out a laugh. He doesn’t know if the team pitched in for a free pass for all of them or if Eden Club’s really that desperate for brownie points with the law. It doesn’t matter either way. Hank takes another swig of beer and reaches out with his free hand. He snatches Connor’s up. Connor’s flesh is exactly as soft as it looks, and to Hank’s surprise, it’s even a little _warm_. Hank just goes for a light grip, but Connor threads their fingers together, watching Hank expectantly. 

Hank tugs Connor across the floor to one of the empty rooms. It opens automatically once it reads his fingerprints. He’d hate having that on file, except his boss already knows what he’s doing. The door seals off behind them, and Hank lets go to wander over to the bed. He hates that it’s round. It’s so _weird_. But it’s better than staying on his feet, so he perches on the end and looks up at Connor. 

Connor looks curiously down at him. Even then, Connor’s face isn’t as blank as it should be. Maybe Hank appreciates that. 

Hank waits for Connor to start doing something, _anything_ , but Connor just stands there, still as a statue. Hank absently wonders if the few strands of hair curled down against his forehead were deliberately styled that way or if another client messed up the otherwise immaculate shape. But for whatever reason, Hank doesn’t want to think about Connor with other clients. Maybe it’s just easier to pretend they’re under different circumstances that way. Not that he’d have Connor in his bedroom under any circumstances. Connor looks just a few years short of half his age. And maybe out of his league. Too _pretty_. So pretty. In a kind of goofy way. But in the privacy of his own head, Hank can admit he’s into it. Physically. He still knows he’s looking at a machine. 

He has to be the one to finally give the orders—he tells the androids, “Take it off.”

“It?” Connor asks, quirking one brow as though Hank’s posed a broadly open-ended question. 

It’s bizarre that Hank even has to clarify, but he does: “Your clothes.” A Traci should know that. Maybe he got one on the fritz. 

But Connor listens. He nods, even letting out a little, “Ah.” Then he loosens his black tie, just like a human all dressed up for work would do. Hank never wears ties to work anymore. There’s something oddly grounding about watching Connor do it. It’s almost like watching a boyfriend come home and strip down after a long day, instead of a Traci wriggling out of a cheap club outfit. Connor pulls his tie away and even walks over to place it down on the table, lightly pushing the provided alcohol aside. 

Hank tags another sip. He doesn’t tell Connor to hurry it up. He didn’t want to just jump a naked mannequin anyway. It’s strangely interesting, _satisfying_ to watch Connor slowly go about the process with care. He tugs at his cuffs and parts his collar, then pops the buttons on his crisp white shirt open one by one. Each new patch of creamy pink skin is all the more enticing for how long it takes to earn, and how gradually it’s exposed. When Connor’s shirt is entirely open, he slips out of his jacket. There’s a peg by the door he hangs it on. He actually smoothes it out there as though worried about wrinkles. 

Back to Hank, Connor pulls the tucked-in tails of his shirt out of his pants. He shrugs the fabric from his shoulder and asks, “How much would you like me to remove?”

Hank’s face screws up. He can’t believe he’s having to explain it. He grunts the obvious: “All of it.” Connor nods. He folds his shirt and sets it by his tie. He steps out of his polished shoes and moves them to the side.

He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and gracefully bends forward, pushing his pants right to the floor. When he straightens up again, Hank realizes he’s not wearing underwear. He’s probably the only Traci in the club who comes without it. Wearing only grey socks held up by garters, he folds his pants and places them atop his shirt, then comes back to stand right in front of Hank. Hank’s given the chance to _stare_ at him, to ogle every line and curve of his handsome body. He’s absolutely _gorgeous_. Hank even loves the little moles that litter his fair skin and the ever-so-slight dusting of hair between his legs. He has a cock, though not a particularly detailed one, and it rests, half-hard, atop the smoothest, tightest balls Hank’s ever seen. 

Hank can only image what the android looks like from behind— _what his asshole’s like_ —what he _feels_ like inside. It’s probably amazing. Ten times better than the flesh light Hank was thinking of. Hank hasn’t had a good fuck in _ages_. 

He really wasn’t going to fuck an android tonight. But he can’t take his eyes away from Connor. He can at least look. Maybe he can cop a little feel. He sets his bottle down on the floor and bids, “C’mere.”

Connor does. He drifts forward, gait not so much seductive and purposeful. He lets Hank reach for his waist and hold onto him, pulling him nearer—he falls into Hank’s lap and settles on Hank’s legs, his plush thighs spreading wide open. He has a good weight to him but isn’t overly heavy. Hank lets his hands drift over Connor’s supple chest, and as he traces Connor’s rosy nipples, he wonders if he wants to fuck Connor’s ass or Connor’s mouth. He definitely needs to fuck _something._ _Touching_ Connor, _feeling_ Connor in his lap, he knows he can’t settle for nothing. Not with this one android. Connor sets his hands on Hank’s shoulders and looks down at Hank, patiently waiting. Almost disbelieving, Hank feels the need to double check, “And I can do anything I want to you, huh?”

Connor doesn’t answer. Of course he’s supposed to say _yes_. He couldn’t possibly be programmed for anything else. But he just looks at Hank, leaving the ball in Hank’s court. It’s disquieting, but somehow Hank likes that better than a hollow ‘yes.’ 

He tucks his hand behind Connor’s neck and pulls Connor that little bit closer, pressing their lips together for a kiss. Connor follows his guidance, opening for his tongue, and even tentatively laps at him back, but that’s all—Connor doesn’t seem to know what to do on his own. He doesn’t take control, doesn’t fiercely kiss Hank back but also doesn’t go still, just sort of fumbles through a series of messy attempts. It’s like kissing a virgin, which Hank hasn’t done for _years_. It’s not like he’s wildly experienced himself, but he’s not a complete shut-in. Or at least, didn’t used to be. 

It’s unexpected, both disappointing and encouraging. In a way, it’s better than a perfect sex-doll would be; Hank didn’t want to kiss _perfection._ But he can’t help pulling back to mutter, “You are _weirdly_ bad at this.”

Connor actually looks taken aback. Maybe offended, maybe insulted. He opens his mouth but doesn’t seem to have an answer. Hank presses, “Don’t you have proper sexual programming?”

Connor stumbles around a, “No.”

Hank blinks. “Why the hell not?” He thought that was the whole _point_ of a Traci. 

Connor counters, almost testily, “If you wanted a more sexually inclined android, you should’ve chosen one of the half naked ones. Instead, you picked the only one fully clothed. Why is that, Lieutenant?”

Hank starts his reply, then abruptly cuts off, because he didn’t tell Connor his rank. Maybe the club already had them all on file, but he thought they were all about discretion, and an android wouldn’t have to know his rank to take his dick. Something’s definitely wrong. Hank stares at the man in his lap, hands digging into Connor’s naked hips, and he insists, “I asked you first.”

Connor’s silent for a moment. Hank glares, willing him to answer—he thought androids _had_ to answer. He never heard of a sex-bot dodging questions before. Finally, Connor admits, “I’m not a Traci. I’m an android sent by CyberLife to investigate a recent case of deviancy at the Eden Club.”

Hank _stares_ at him. A fucking _investigator_.

Then Hank jolts back to life and abruptly pushes Connor off his lap. Connor stumbles to the floor like any human would, devoid of all grace. Hank’s too busy being shocked and suddenly ashamed to care about all the little unique things about Connor anymore. “Then what the fuck did you go along with it for? You let me drag you back here and make out with you, for fuck’s sake!”

Connor straightens out and even squares his shoulders, looking for all the world like he should be adjusting his tie. Except he’s still completely naked. Except for his socks. That should’ve been another red flag; Hank said _everything_ , and he still kept them on. Somehow, that only makes him more adorable. He explains like it’s obvious, “I may have to work with the police department at some point. I wanted to see what kind of man you were.”

Hank can only groan. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to bang an android. It’d be just his luck that he got the only one in the club that didn’t know _how_ to bang. He can’t help but wonder, “What if I’d actually fucked you? Would you have gone that far, even without it in your program?”

Connor looks at Hank. He seems to have trouble with his answer. It actually looks like he’s surprised with himself, dazed as he says, “Yes.”

Somehow, that turns Hank on even more. He shouldn’t be turned on at all. Clearly, Connor has a mind of his own. 

And he would’ve slept with Hank anyway. 

Hank struggles for some semblance of sanity. 

Fortunately, he still has some beer left. He snatches that up and downs a good chunk before he thinks to order, “Get your clothes back on.”

Connor jerks to life. He pads over to collect his pants and shirt. Hank watches him pull it all back on, even his tie, which he folds properly, sparing no detail. Only when he’s fully dressed again does Connor return his eyes to Hank. He pauses and takes two tries to say, “I hope we meet again, Lieutenant Anderson.” And he leaves, just like that. Like he can _hope_ —an android with _feelings_.

And he knew Hank’s name. He really was a detective. 

Hank flops back down onto the bed and swears.


End file.
